


An Arrangement

by ThePunkRanger



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Dom/sub, F/M, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Negotiation, Mentions of CBT, Minor dom drop, Rating May Change, Spanking, mostly non-sexual BDSM
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:21:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26330059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePunkRanger/pseuds/ThePunkRanger
Summary: Joan is willing to try anything to get Sherlock Holmes to actually listen to her.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Joan Watson (Elementary)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Need](https://archiveofourown.org/works/505373) by [korynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/korynn/pseuds/korynn). 



> Initially inspired by the fic Need by korynn, and then I just sorta ran off with the idea.

She’s never thought much about BDSM.She wouldn’t say that she’s against it, just that it’s never been her thing.It’s always just been something in the background of her consciousness, something that she doesn’t have to worry about unless someone does it wrong and she ends up using a scalpel to remove something that never should’ve come near where it’s been lodged in the first place.

Only, when she meets her newest client, she starts thinking about it.

She starts thinking about it because when she asks if the woman she saw dressing through the window got him high, his reply is “About six feet,” and he drags a belt off of a ladder with handcuffs attached to the rungs.

Part of her job is  _understanding_ , which means that it’s for entirely professional reasons that she finds herself tucked into her temporary bed that night, laptop open, reading about bondage.

Sherlock Holmes is not the kind of man she pictures when she hears the word  _submissive_ , though, to be fair, the man she pictures usually has his face obscured by a latex hood.More than looks, though, Sherlock strikes her as having a dominant personality.He’s loud, and brash, and occasionally domineering, which strikes her as the exact opposite of submissive.

But, as she reads more and more articles (all for the sake of better client understanding, she tells herself), she finds that it isn’t entirely unusual.The information she finds on male submission explains that some men, as well as all genders, find the dominant rolls they play in everyday life to be exhausting, and that many find relief through giving up control to someone else.

It’s certainly not a concept she’s unfamiliar with, and she scolds herself for having not made the connection earlier.She’s a sober companion, for crying out loud.She’s met plenty of people in her current career who have such a terrible time with their own lives and brains that they’ve turned to substances to turn them off.

Only, unlike narcotics, she finds multiple studies showing that engaging in  _healthy_ BDSM can be beneficial to mental and physical health.Because under the guise of abuse and humiliation, the relationships formed, and actions involved, all stem from an insurmountable, unquestionable place of trust, love, and understanding.

Only, Sherlock doesn’t have a dom.

She turns a blind eye to the women who come and go from the Brownstone, because she’s here to keep him from using drugs, not people, even if it does go against her better judgement.But the more she reads, and in turn observes, the more she feels like he’s stuck in a kind of holding pattern.

He explains to her that first day that his body requires sex to work properly, yet there’s an underlying current that she finds running through him as she settles in to her time as his companion.His body may find relief in what he’s able to pay for, but his mind requires relief too, and that doesn’t come from someone charging by the hour.

—

She’s staking out the house, quiet upstairs, in an attempt to catch a pair of thieving prostitutes in the act, when she fully realizes that she actually  _can_ see Sherlock Holmes as submissive.

When she comes downstairs, the women are in handcuffs, and so is Sherlock.Only, his aren’t police issue.At least, she’s fairly certain they aren’t.

He’s in a dining chair, shirtless, with his hands restrained behind his back, and the fly of his pants open.

Yes, she can  _definitely_ see Sherlock Holmes as submissive.

—

It’s nearly a week later when she finally decides to try an idea she’s been ruminating on for a while now.The idea that maybe just a  bit of innocent domination might help him in the ways he needs, but can’t meet.

She finds him tapping away at his laptop, back hunched and eyes glassy from staring at the screen for too long.It’s nearly three in the morning, and he hasn’t slept in more than forty-eight hours.

“Come on, isn’t it time you gave it a rest?”She tries, once again, leaning against the edge of the desk so that she might be able to catch his eye.She’s exhausted and in her pajamas already, but she can’t quite bring herself to leave him here for one more night.

“No time like the present,” he replies, eyes fully locked on the chat box he’s typing into.

She takes a deep breath, because even if this isn’t sexual or romantic, it still feels like she’s edging very close to the tipping point of that line.Steeling herself, she reaches out and lays a hand on his shoulder.

“Sherlock, it’s late.”She says it as a statement, her voice soft and plying.He’s never listened to reason before, but she supposes there’s a first time for everything.

To her surprise, he actually _does_ look away from his computer, though his eyes are on her hand, not her face.He looks confused, surprised even, and she finds his furrowed brow admittedly adorable.

Eventually, though, he tears his eyes away and goes back to typing.“Which makes it the perfect time to hunt down some of the less favorable citizens of the internet, don’t you think?”

Maybe she should try a more direct approach, she thinks, and lays her hand on the back of his neck.

His body goes stiff the second she does.

“Sherlock, it’s time for bed.”Her voice is firm, but not angry.She doesn’t want him to ignore her, but she has no interest in having him fear her, either.Or push back because he feels her treatment is unfair.

It takes a second, her hand laying against the warm skin at the back of his neck, her thumb playing cautiously at the edge of his hairline, but then the unthinkable happens.

Sherlock shuts his computer.He leaves it sitting there on the desk, where it can be retrieved in the morning, and then he stands, giving her a little nod in the affirmative.

“Come on,” she says, letting her hand slip away from his neck as she moves to lead him toward the stairs.

Before he can get to his door, she shakes her head and points in the direction of the bathroom.“Brush your teeth.”

He blinks at her, undoubtedly surprised, but then does as he’s told, slipping into the bathroom and reaching for the green toothbrush in the holder.

Once he’s done, she nods, pleased, and waves him towards his bedroom.“Get some rest.”

—

It’s like she’s flipped a switch on him.

The next morning, not only is he rested, but he’s filled with enough energy that he’s bouncing on his heels as he tells her about the case he’s been called in on.

Even as she smiles and goes to get her coat on, she can’t help the surge of pride that fills her.

_It worked._


	2. Chapter 2

She employs her new tactic several times after that, mostly when Sherlock is neglecting self-care.

He reacts well when she does so, and she wonders if he even realizes what she’s doing.That she’s taking on the roll of non-sexual dominant to him.

As it turns out, he does.

“Sherlock, you should sleep,” she prompts, her hand stroking slowly through his hair, which usually works like a charm.But tonight he pulls away from her, pushing back in his chair until his feet are three inches away from her, his expression guarded.

“What are you doing, Watson?”He asks, brow furrowed, body tense.

She flushes, realizing that she’s been found out.“I’m...” she searches for an explanation that sounds more professional than “acting like a dominatrix because you won’t listen to me otherwise,” only she’s not sure how else to say it.Eventually she goes with, “Using certain methods that I’ve observed you to react positively to, to try and help you observe proper self-care.”

“You’ve been acting as the dominant party in a dominant/submissive relationship,” Sherlock translates, and she has no idea how to interpret the look he’s giving her.

“I- yes,” she admits, waving her arms because she doesn’t know what else to do with herself under Sherlock’s scrutiny, “Yes, okay?You’re so closed off all the time, and you won’t listen to any of the attempts I’ve made to try and help you, so yes.I observed your sexual tendencies and decided to give it a try as a means to get you to respond better to my role as your sober companion.”

“You observed-“

“The handcuffs, Sherlock!”She snaps, gesturing in the direction of the ladder.

“Of course.”Sherlock stands from his chair then, looking like a storm incarnated.“So, you observe that I enjoy a submissive role when it comes to sexual intercourse, and you decide to... give it a go?Order me around?Tell me what to do and when to do it?”He’s doing that bouncing thing that he does when he has too many pent up emotions and nothing to do with them, and Joan is beginning to feel like the biggest asshole in the world.

“It’s not-“ she starts, feeling the heavy pressure of guilt weigh her down.

“Did you like it?”He’s still now, one eyebrow raised in question, mouth just slightly open.

“What?”Is all she manages, taken aback.

“Did you like it?Did you enjoy your little facade?Take pleasure, sexual or not,” he adds when she balks at his words, “In the act of telling me what to do?In... having me obey you without question?”He’s circling his hands, eyes as intense as she’s ever seen them.

“Why?”Why does he want to know?If she says yes, if she  _admits_ that yes, she likes it, likes  _him_ like that, what then?And if she denies it, where does that leave them?She doesn’t like being led into blind corners, and she can feel the sting of near-tears in the back of her throat, cold and scratchy.“Are you angry about it?”

Sherlock lets out a loud huff, like a bull about to charge.Only he doesn’t.Instead, he stills completely.“I am not... entirely certain what I feel.”He runs a hand through his short hair, looking suddenly uncertain, “If you had, for example, used such tactics as a mere means to an end, a way to accomplish your task here more efficiently, and felt nothing in doing so- or even, found yourself repulsed by my... desires, shall we call them?Then yes, I may feel a bit miffed,” the last word comes out hard-edged, and Sherlock is back to anger-bouncing, “I may even find myself feeling... taken advantage of.”

Joan flinches, hearing the thing that she’s been so afraid of this whole time.

“However,” he continues, tilting his head in un-directed concession as he stares at the space above her, “If you were to admit that, say, you  _enjoyed_ the practice, if you found it... fulfilling in any way that you had previously been unaware of, sexual or otherwise, then...” he licks his lips, his bouncing slowed slightly, “Then perhaps, we could discuss such things  _properly_.Like adults, as you like to put it.Perhaps even find ourselves...” he hesitates here, and his eyes flick downward to meet hers, “An arrangement, of some sort.”

Joan breathes deeply, hardly daring to take her eyes off of the man.“I...” the word “arrangement” is still echoing in her head, a half-made promise filled with hope that could be crushed at any moment, “I... did.”She makes herself meet Sherlock’s eyes confidently, telling herself that this is the same man that she’s had at her beck and call whenever she feels he needs it.“I liked it.I liked it a lot, even.”Despite her wishes, she can feel her face heating as she says the words aloud, “If you truly feel like a satisfactory arrangement can be made, then I’ll be more than happy to hear you out.”She catches the way her words make his eyes sparkle with hope, but she has to make sure he understands what she’s offering.“Just remember, technically, I’m still only your sober companion.I’m only here for a few weeks.”

And just like that, the light dies from his eyes.“You don’t have to be,” he says, not for the first time, “You like being a detective, you apparently like having me as your submissive,” she coughs awkwardly, though he doesn’t appear to notice, “There’s no reason you couldn’t stay.”

“Sherlock...”

“No, you’re right,” he interrupts, smacking his thighs before sitting back down in his chair, “This isn’t the topic at hand.”

It’s an awkward discussion, but a needed one.When Joan admits to having no real experience in the world of BDSM, Sherlock doesn’t look at all surprised, but does admit that she’s done a “stunning” job of it so far.They agree to keep things non-sexual, for now, at least, and agree on a safe word (“tortoise”).

Sherlock explains his own needs, those of being allowed to merely follow, to have a space, physical or metaphorical, where nothing else exists but that very second and his emotions.No deduction, no having all the answers, no  _thinking_.He doesn’t have many specifics of what that entails, but they agree to be experimental about it.If they try something and either or both of them don’t like it, it doesn’t ever have to happen again.

They also agree to a signal.It’s Sherlock’s idea, a way to help him slide more easily into his subspace without needing to say anything in case they’re someplace it would be detrimental.So, instead of words, she pets his hair.

By the time everything is talked out they’re both exhausted, and, to Joan’s delight, Sherlock agrees to go to bed.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during 1x15: A Giant Gun Filled With Drugs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how long it’s taken me to update this. I had a fully-fledged out idea of where I wanted to go with this next, only to realize that the timeline I had set for myself made it impossible, so I’ve had to rework it several times over.
> 
> But now we’re back on track, and that starts with some hardcore hurt/comfort.
> 
> Enjoy!

Joan Watson is going to kill a man.

The man in question happens to be Sherlock’s ex-drug dealer, and as for how she’s going to kill him, she hasn’t quite decided yet.There are plenty of implements of torture around the Brownstone, and even more items that could be used as such, but she just can’t decide what would be the most satisfying.

She’s never exactly considered herself confrontational, but when she runs into Rhys at the bathroom door when she goes to find the first-aid kit to patch Sherlock up after getting the _shit_ beaten out of him at a _fucking_ night club, the cloying scent of weed is thick in the small room, and there’s a very large part of her that wants to grab the bastard by the back of his shirt and slam him into the wall.

But, she has enough self-control to at least keep her hands tightly at her sides while she tells Rhys off, any thought about how she only comes up to his shoulders long forgotten in the face of  _he’s making Sherlock hurt_ and she can’t allow that.

Sherlock told her that she’ll just have to work harder while Rhys is staying with them, never mind the fact that she technically isn’t working at all these days, and so that’s what she does.She watches him with a hawk’s eye, the way he becomes tenser, more tightly wound, with each passing hour, until he’s curled in on himself and glowering at the world.

She tries not to worry when she comes back from inside the coffeeshop they’re staked out at to find both men glaring at each other.Just like she tries not to worry when Rhys begins to scoff at Sherlock’s process late that night, after they’ve been given his daughter’s finger in a box, and he stalks away to blow off steam.

Unfortunately, she can’t not worry when she comes downstairs later to find Sherlock with his hand at Rhys’s neck, vibrating with rage as he looms over the man that he’s thrown into the chair.

She’s absolutely going to kill him, she thinks to herself, wrapped tightly in her comforter, trying to convince herself that she can sleep, that she doesn’t have to stay up to listen for Sherlock.

Her bedroom door creaks, and she can hear the soft shuffle of shoes against the hardwood floor.

Without rolling over to look, she grumbles into her pillow.“Sherlock, what?”

“I need you.”

That gets her to flip over, sitting up in bed to look at him.He’s still dressed in his day clothes, his cheeks pink from being outside in the cold night air, making the cut on his left cheek stand out starkly, even in the dark.

He’s standing with his hands clasped behind his back, and his eyes on the floor, looking for all the world like a scared little boy, and Joan’s heart just about shatters.

“You told me yesterday that you thought it was a bad idea,” she reminds him, thinking back to being shaken off when she’d brought up the suggestion of allowing him time to be in subspace.

“Yes, well...” Sherlock rocks a little on his heels, “I was wrong.”A beat passes, the old house silent except for the creak of settling beams, before he finally meets her eyes.“Please.”

Joan doesn’t hesitate in lifting the comforter invitingly.“Come here.”

Sherlock sits quickly at the edge of the bed, kicking out of his shoes before rolling down into the warmth of the blankets, and Joan pulls him tight to her, her fingers finding purchase in his hair.

He grips her like a python, his arms engulfing her smaller body while he wraps a leg over and around her waist, using every limb and muscle he can to get as close as possible, his head tucked securely down against her chest.

His body is cold in comparison to the warm cocoon she’s made for herself, which makes it all the more noticeable when he begins to cry, hot tears soaking through the thin fabric of her nightshirt.

They start small, just warm pinpricks against her skin as Sherlock breathes deeply against her chest, but as soon as the dam he’s worked so hard to shore up begins to crack, it all comes tumbling down, and within minutes he’s sobbing against her, body shaking with every emotion that’s ever been ground into dust for the sake of his own perceived mental well-being.

He cries with the force of years-worth of pain and frustration, and whatever the hell Rhys did to break Sherlock’s defenses, she’s becoming more and more certain that death might just be too kind of a punishment for him.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Joan clutches Sherlock back just as tightly, tucking her head down so that her lips are pressed to his hair, sympathetic tears burning at her own eyes.“Shh, it’s okay...” she rocks them slightly, murmuring soothing words into Sherlock’s hair as he cries, keeping her own breathing steady in an attempt to counteract the fact that he seems to only be capable of sucking in air at the moment, any attempt at an exhale lost in the wracking sobs.

“I’ve got you, I’m right here...” her arms are beginning to cramp from holding him so tightly, and she lets one slide down his back, rubbing at the strip of warm skin where his sweater has rucked up under the covers, allowing herself to count the vertebrae of his spine in a self-soothing technique of her own.“I won’t let anyone hurt you... I’ll always be right here.”

She isn’t totally sure where that last part came from.She’s spent the last several weeks waffling over the decision she’d made to lie to Sherlock about his father extending her contract, worrying over what his reaction might be when he inevitably found out, how long she could possibly keep the charade going... but whatever the reason, the words feel right.Unfortunately, instead of calming Sherlock’s tears, her sentiment ends up spurring him into a fresh wave of sobs, his grip so hard that she can feel the sharpness of his short nails as they dig into her back.

“Oh, shh... Sherlock...” her voice cracks, and all she can do is hold him.She’s had a sneaking suspicion that part of his reluctance to further his recovery has spurned from a fear of abandonment, something that would have assumedly been developed in response to a, if Sherlock is to be believed, neglectful father, a mother that she can only assume must have died young, and the brutal murder of the only woman he’s ever loved.And then, there’s her.Whatever this is between them, it’s not something she’s willing to give up, and she’s damn well going to make sure Sherlock knows it.

“Please... stay.”His words are tiny and wavering, muffled by the fabric of her nightshirt, and if she still had any doubt about her decision, they’re gone now.

“Always...” she kisses his hair, “Even when things change, I’m not going anywhere.”

She can barely keep her eyes open by the time Sherlock stops crying, and she quickly realizes that the only reason he has is because he’s fallen asleep.

As carefully as possible, Joan settles herself into a more comfortable position, moving Sherlock so that his head is resting easily between her right breast and clavicle.The nest of her comforter surrounds the both of them completely, and she finds herself lazily petting his hair as she nods off, all thoughts of Rhys’s demise drifting from her mind.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been working on an obnoxiously long chapter for this story for ages, but since it’s still not done, I decided to break it up and offer up the first part of it today.
> 
> I’ll be updating the tags for the next chapter.

Sherlock is being an absolute menace.

Every obnoxious behavior she’s ever seen him exhibit, he’s shown today.

He’s snapped at the captain, snapped at Bell, snapped at her.He’s even had to be physically restrained from their suspect.

He’s seething at watching an obviously guilty man walk free, and she can’t blame him for that, but when he moves to stalk after him, she can’t take it anymore, and apparently neither can Gregson.

“Holmes!”The captain’s voice rings out across the station like a gunshot, making Sherlock falter, “Let him go.”She sees Sherlock’s fists clench, and can hear the stamp of his foot as he gives in, turning on his heel.Gregson levels his gaze to her, his eyes softening with what she’s pretty sure is pity.“Take him home, Watson.”

Joan nods, intercepting Sherlock on his way back to them and turning him towards the elevators, her pace slow so as to not run into their suspect and his lawyer.“Come on, we’re done here.”

“B- but-“ Sherlock splutters, stumbling as she pulls him by his sleeve.

“ _Now _.__ " She reaches up and clasps her hand around the back of his neck, the closest thing to domination she dares to do in the middle of the police station, but it at least startles Sherlock enough to make him _ __shut up___ for five seconds so she can get him home _ _.__

—

Sherlock pouts all the way back to the Brownstone, sitting with his arms folded and his eyes staunchly focused out the window of the cab.Admittedly, getting stuck in the rush hour traffic that they wouldn’t have been in had it not been for Sherlock’s unreasonable behavior isn’t exactly helping Joan’s mood either, and by the time they get home they’re both one misstep away from a brawl.

When Sherlock drops his jacket on the floor, kicks out of his shoes and walks away without taking her coat like usual, she has to physically bite her cheek to keep from snapping at him.Instead, she hangs her coat herself, pointedly ignoring Sherlock’s belongings.

“I’ll be in my room.Unless you’re actively being murdered, I don’t want to hear so much as a peep from you!”She calls to the house at large as she ascends the stairs.

She stays locked in her bedroom for the next three hours, headphones on, listening to a playlist of the music that her mother had deemed “obnoxious” and “vulgar” during her youth, and generally allowing herself to wallow in feeling like an angry teenager until the bass becomes so loud that the air turns hard to breathe and every last ounce of anger has been drained from her body.

Turning off the music leaves her ears ringing, and suddenly she can feel the gnawing hunger that she hadn’t noticed before, as well as hear the shuffle of Sherlock downstairs.It’s not likely that she’ll get an apology out of him for his previous behavior, but if she’s lucky he’ll at least have left out something for her to eat.

When she gets down to the kitchen she finds an open pizza box on the table, and Sherlock sitting in his chair, tapping away at his laptop.

“Make any progress?”She asks casually, already in the process of reminding herself that just because Sherlock doesn’t  _say_ he’s sorry doesn’t mean that he’s oblivious to his actions as she grabs a slice.

“No.”Sherlock doesn’t look up as he answers her, though the sounds of his fingers on the keyboard become suddenly louder.

She sighs and takes the seat opposite him, and they manage an almost comfortable silence for a good ten minutes before Sherlock’s fingers still, and the glass of water in front of her begins to slosh with the vibrations of his bouncing knee beneath the table.

“...Watson?”When her head shoots up in surprise she sees him falter slightly, but then he shakes himself and continues, “It occurs to me that I was... not on my best behavior this afternoon.”

Joan can’t stop herself from scoffing, “That’s putting it mildly.”

“Yes.Well... I’ve decided you deserve to know that it was by no fault of your own.”When Joan glares at him for even suggesting that she would take responsibility for his poor behavior, he shrinks in on himself slightly, looking sheepish.“What I mean to say is: these last few days have been... difficult, for me.Not the case, of course,” this time he doesn’t even seem to take notice of her glower, “But... I’ve found myself... in need.I realize now that I should have voiced these... these feelings, to you earlier, but... I admit that I am a tad... out of practice.”

Joan’s eyebrows draw together, the gears of her brain stuttering as she tries to put everything into context.“When you say “in need,” you’re referring to...”

“My previously discussed submissive tendencies, yes.”Sherlock’s voice is clipped with tension and anxiety, and some of Joan’s annoyance slips away when he lets her see just how  _hard_ this is for him to say.

“You could have just asked,” she says, thinking of how many hours,  _days_ even, of grief a simple conversation would have saved them.

“Yes, well...” Sherlock looks down at the table, and Joan doesn’t miss the way the vibrations of the water glass continue to grow, “That would have been the mature thing to do, now wouldn’t it?”

The silence hangs between them for several seconds, possibly even minutes, because Joan can’t quite figure out where to go from here.In an odd, roundabout way, she’s proud of Sherlock.The man she’d met just over two months ago would never have even dreamed of sitting down to talk about his  _feelings_ with her, and the fact that he’s gotten himself this far is impressive when she thinks of it in that context.But just because she’s proud of his progress doesn’t negate the fact that he’s still spent the day behaving like a petulant child.

“So...” she starts, leaning down and around to catch Sherlock’s eye, “Are you asking now?”

“In a way, yes,” he admits, finally raising his head to look at her properly.“However, when taking into account my previous actions...” here he hesitates, fingers tapping out an anxious rhythm on the tabletop, “It would occur to me that I may be deserving of something more... corporal, than our previous encounters.”

So  _that’s_ what his hesitation is about.So much of this new aspect of their relationship has been surprisingly tender, considering the things she’s seen in her research, and she can imagine that he might just be experiencing apprehension toward scaring her off.

Eventually she nods, and raises a curious eyebrow at him.“And what exactly does ‘more corporal’ look like?”

Sherlock stands quickly, like he’s been released from invisible bonds, nearly toppling his chair back as he waves a hand to indicate she should follow him.“I have quite a collection of instruments to choose from, if you’d like to have a look.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY CRAP this is a long chapter! Like, ridiculously long. But it’s so ridiculously long because there was so much I wanted to pack into it. There’s feels, and sexual tension, and awkward moments, and short interlude where I just went on a rant about humblers and I’m just, really, really proud of this chapter.

Now it’s her turn to be hesitant, following after him cautiously to the disaster area he calls a bedroom.Ever the master of organized chaos, he moves between discarded clothing and half-completed science experiments with ease, snatching up various items as he does and tossing them onto the only clear surface currently available: the bed.

Joan mentally catalogues each item as it lands on the mattress, going over make, purpose, and execution as calmly as she can, because Sherlock really does have  _ a lot _ of them.

The first item is a paddle, wrapped in black leather held in place by silver studs, used for spanking.Then there’s the flogger, also black leather, with its collection of hard, short strands used to create either wide, dull swatches of pain, or smaller, more intense flicks of it, usable on a fair amount of the body.There’s a riding crop, tipped in a brilliant scarlet, particularly effective for a more tightly focused punishment.A second paddle, this one plain, unstained pine, with heart-shaped cutouts to reduce wind resistance and leave patterned markings.

She watches as a cane joins their midst, followed by a cat-o-nine-tails, a whip that looks like it was taken straight out of an Indiana Jones movie, a studded belt that she can’t imagine Sherlock has ever used for its intended purpose, three tall taper candles in various colors, and a fabric bundle that she recognizes immediately.

She undoes the clasp on the folded bundle, allowing it to fall open, revealing the shining contents inside.

There’s a thump from the direction of the closet, and when she looks up from the scalpel she’s been studying critically, Sherlock is standing at the other side of the bed, a long metal bar sporting a trio of restraints held in one hand, bouncing on his toes.

“Ah... yes.I assure you, Watson, I would never dream of asking you to utilize a tool that would bring back triggering memories.I apologize, I hadn’t been thinking.”

She shakes her head, sliding the scalpel back into its pocket before replacing the entire thing on the bed.“No, you don’t need to apologize.I know you didn’t mean anything by it.”After a second’s hesitation, she looks up at him properly, “Why do you have it, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Sherlock twists and taps the restraint bar in his hands like an uncomfortable teacher with a pointer, shrugging more than once before he manages to reply, “I’m sure that you’re well aware of how much more fine-tuned of an instrument a scalpel is in comparison to your average kitchen knife.In the occasion that I desire my blood spilt, I prefer it happen via a tool I know to be clean and unlikely to leave lasting damage.”

Joan nods, silently agreeing that such practices are indeed much safer when done with the correct tools, then makes the forceful decision that she doesn’t want to think about it anymore, and turns her attention to Sherlock’s bar.“So, what’s that for?”

Sherlock seems equally grateful for a change of subject, perking up immediately.“This, my dear Watson, is a device known as a humbler.While I don’t imagine it will find much use tonight, I figured it may be something to consider at a later date.”

Joan hums, cocking her head as she looks at it.It should be fairly straight forward, but she just can’t quite figure out what the middle ring is for.“Wrists?”She suggests, indicating the cuffs at either end.

“Ankles,” Sherlock corrects, his eyes flashing with what she can only describe as a masochistic glee, and _oh_. Oh, that’s what the middle ring is for.

“That can’t possibly be comfortable.”

“Rather the point of CBT,” he replies, an eyebrow cocked as though waiting for her to respond with shared excitement.

Joan’s eyebrows knit back together, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m failing to see how that could possibly be considered therapeutic.”

“Ah,” Sherlock’s lips quirk into an amused half-smile, “Wrong CBT, Watson.While I agree that a humbler would be rather unhelpful in the practice of cognitive behavioral therapy, it can be  _ essential _ when used in the art of cock and ball torture.”

And now she’s  _ definitely _ blushing.

“This particular model is actually what’s referred to as an extreme humbler.The average humbler lacks the ankle restraints, instead sitting quite snugly against the upper thighs,” here Sherlock slides the restraint bar behind his legs, positioning it appropriately in example, “However, I personally find this version much more difficult to maneuver in.Makes it quite impossible to stand upright.”

Joan still hasn’t quite wrapped her head around how to feel about the image of Sherlock Holmes, trapped on his knees by the  _ testicles_, which, she supposes, is why all she manages to say is, “You speak from experience.”

Sherlock nods, placing the humbler down among his other “toys.”“Unfortunately, it’s been a while since it’s seen any action.Perhaps that will change someday soon,” he waggles his eyebrows suggestively, and Joan can’t help the laughter that bubbles up at the sight.“For tonight, however...” he gestures toward the spread of toys with a “take your pick” motion.

All Joan can manage to do is stare.She’s never used any of this, has only ever  seen  any of it in pictures on her computer.And even more than that... “Ah, Sherlock?”He cocks an eyebrow, watching her intently, “I... I don’t... know, how to do this.”

“It’s quite simple, really,” Sherlock says, sweeping his hand over the covered mattress, “You choose your implement via the amount of pain you wish to inflict, draw back your arm, and swing.”He mimes the sweeping swish of a paddle.

Joan holds up a hand to stop him.“No, I mean- I don’t know how to do  _ this_.I don’t have any experience with impact play.”

“If you will recall, Watson, you had no real experience with domination a few weeks ago,” Sherlock points out.

Joan rolls her eyes with a sigh, “I know, but- I mean, I have  _ no _ experience here.My parents didn’t believe in corporal punishment.I was never even spanked as a kid.”

That seems to give Sherlock pause.“Never?”She shakes her head.“Not even a swat on the wrist for stealing cookies?”

“One time, when he was in second grade, Oren got slapped on the hand with a ruler when a teacher caught him trying to cheat on a test.”Joan sweeps her hair over her shoulder in a nervous tick, “Me... never.What if...” the words seem to stick in her throat, “What if I hurt you?”

“I’m asking you to hurt me,” Sherlock points out.

“No, I mean...  _ really _ hurt you.”

“Need I remind you that we have an agreed-upon safeword in place?”He says, “You are also fully able to check in on my well-being throughout the experience.Communication is key here, for both of us.”He must see that she’s still unsure, because after a beat he steps around the end of the bed, swiping his palms against his pant legs.“Perhaps...” he gnaws at his lower lip, eyes flicking to and fro from her own with uncertainty, “Perhaps tonight, we should forego the tools.”

Her stomach twists at his suggestion.“No, Sherlock!I’m sorry, I didn’t- I’m just... new at this.I don’t want you to think-“

“Watson,” Sherlock raises a hand to stop her apologies, voice calm and steady, “I am not suggesting that we forego our activities entirely, merely that we take your experience level into account.”He finally manages to hold her gaze, eyes searching as he continues, “I have a bit of a tendency to become... carried away, as you well know.However, I do not wish to overwhelm you.So, my recommendation for this evening is that we leave my many implements of torture here, and utilize something more... basic, instead.”

Joan blinks at him.“Basic?What do you have in mind?”

“Well, I was thinking... your hand?”He looks so nervous, so unsure, and somehow seeing Sherlock share her nerves makes Joan relax.

She chews on her bottom lip for a moment, considering his offer.Using her hand would make it safer than most of the tools Sherlock has at his disposal, make it so that she can’t go too far... where impact is concerned, at least.However, it could also make this so much more... intimate.He could only be at most an arm’s length away...

“Would you...” she swallows, trying to ignore the fact that her ears are about to burst into flames with embarrassment, “Show me what it feels like?”

Sherlock’s voice is tender, barely above a whisper as he holds out an open palm, “Hold out your arm for me?”

She does, laying the back of her hand in his palm, baring the sensitive skin of her inner arm.Sherlock’s fingers wrap gently around her wrist, and she can barely breathe as she watches him draw back his other arm.

The slap lands with a smack, Joan’s skin stinging at the sudden contact, and when Sherlock withdraws his flat palm, there’s a pink oval that’s left in its wake.

It hurts, but not in an entirely unpleasant way.The pain that had flared under the initial impact has quickly smoothed out and dissipated like ripples on a still lake, and by the time Sherlock lets go of her wrist, the pink is nearly gone from her skin.

“That’s it?”She really shouldn’t be surprised.It’s not like it’s the first time she’s ever been hit in her life, but somehow it’s less dramatic like this.This isn’t the jarring pain of being whacked by Oren during a childhood brawl over toys, and it’s not the shock and adrenaline of getting hit in a fight.It just... is.

“Would you prefer I use the flogger?”Sherlock asks, lips tugged upward in a cheeky smile that winds up making her grin right back at him like an idiot.

“No,” she has to bite back a giggle, feeling suddenly giddy with the realization of just what she’s about to agree to, “No, it’s fine.I...” she meets his eyes, drawing herself back down to a steady, serious place in her mind, “I can do that.Just tell me how you want it.”

Sherlock huffs out a little laugh, head ducked in an uncharacteristic show of sheepishness.“The how is up to you, I’m afraid.I’ve expressed my needs, now it’s your turn.”

Joan considers this.She has only two options that she can think of as far as... as far as  _ position _ goes, and god if that doesn’t bring up a whole other dynamic in her mind.She gives her head a little shake.Not now.Her intention is to spank him... holy fuck, she’s going to  _ spank _ Sherlock Holmes.At his own request.He can either be braced on a roughly waist-high object... the table in the kitchen, maybe?No, she isn’t sure she wants to do this where they eat.His desk in the study?A better idea.Her other option is to bend him over her knee...

The thought ignites a tiny, curious spark just under her bellybutton, and she suddenly can’t seem to look Sherlock in the eye.

Over her knee, then.So that’s settled.As for where...

They can’t do it here, in the disaster that is Sherlock’s oft neglected bedroom.Her room is... not right.So maybe...

Yes, that should do nicely.

“Alright.Follow me.”Sherlock jolts to attention at the sudden command, and Joan can’t help feeling more than a little pleased at how quickly and easily he falls into obedience for her.

He follows her down the stairs to the main floor, into the library, where she uses a foot to push the matching ottoman around to the side of where she eventually settles in the deep, magenta chair in the corner.

“Undo your belt.Pants and underwear around your ankles,” she commands, and  _ fuck _ if he doesn’t lick his lips just the tiniest bit before complying.Joan makes a point not to spend more than a brief moment taking in his bared genitals, the way his soft, uncut penis lays so innocently against the cushion of his balls.Makes a point not to think about the ridiculous compulsion she gets to pet the thick, dark line of hair that runs from his bellybutton down to the juncture of his thighs.It’s not like she’s blind to the fact that Sherlock is an attractive man, and now she can safely say that the fact applies to all of him, not just the parts he can show in polite company.

“Over my knee.You can rest your upper body on the ottoman.”

Sherlock complies, lowering himself across her thighs with a practiced ease, elbows braced against the top of the ottoman.

Cautiously, uncertainly, Joan runs a hand over his bared flesh, reminding herself several times over that this is what he wants.That, as much as she’s still almost... almost  scared to admit it, it’s what she wants also.Sherlock has placed his trust in her.Not just here, over her knee, but in their everyday lives as well.He trusts her with his life, and she’s not about to dismiss the gravity of that trust, especially when it comes from Sherlock Holmes.

“You’ll let me know if you need me to stop?”She asks again, still gently running her hand over his rear as she commits the feel and shape of it to memory.

There’s a wry note to Sherlock’s voice as he replies, “Yes, Watson.”

It’s a split-second decision.The light swat lands with a  _ pap_, breaking the tension that’s been building inside of her and making Sherlock start in her lap.

“Not Watson.Not here.‘Watson’ is what you call me while we’re working, it’s how you introduce me to clients and suspects.Call me whatever you like, but I’m not Watson here.”

Silence.She can hear Sherlock swallow roughly, feel him squirm a little in her lap, and then...

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good boy,” she praises, petting his hair, and finds her chest twisting with adoration when he leans into the touch.“Will you tell me how much you can take?”

“I have quite a high tolerance where pain is concerned.I can easily take much more than the average person, so...” she can hear him lick his lips again, feel the nervously shallow expansion and contraction of his ribs and stomach against her thighs as he breathes, “I implore you not to hold back.”

“That’s not an answer, Sherlock,” she points out, resisting the urge to swat him again.

She can hear the tap and scratch of his fingers working at the taut fabric of the ottoman.“When I... if I...” Sherlock breathes deeply, “I have a tendency to bear pain silently.The more vocal... I become, the greater the pain.”He takes another deep, steadying breath that pushes his ribcage firmly into her thigh, “I promise you, I will not hesitate to safeword out if I need to.”

“I trust you,” Joan assures, briefly squeezing his hip in reassurance before drawing her hand away.“Now, can you be a good boy for me and take your punishment?”

No hesitation this time.“Yes, mistress.”

The first slap is louder than she’d expected, and Sherlock jolts in surprise, inhaling sharply.Pulling back, Joan can see the pink imprint of her own hand against his pale flesh.

The second feels easier, and the third even more so.Sherlock takes each hit stoically, muscles tensing before impact, and his breath hitching just a little when they land.

She tries not to think about how or where Sherlock may have learned to bear physical pain so quietly, instead concentrating on the surprising ease at which she gets the hang of dealing out a spanking.

Within only a few more hits her hand is stinging, and she wonders why she’s never heard anyone discussing the fact that a spanking isn’t only painful to the receiving partner before.She shakes out her hand, and then gets back to business.

A particularly sharp slap makes Sherlock writhe against her, and she finds herself thrown off rhythm by the fact that she can feel his erection press against her leg when he does.She can’t say that she’s surprised, but  knowing  that someone finds sexual pleasure in pain and feeling the evidence of it, hot and hard against her leg, are two very separate things.She isn’t mad about it, nor does it make her uncomfortable, but it is... curious.

Sherlock is nothing if not open about his sexual exploits, and she’s gotten used to tuning out his comments about her gait or how she really shouldn’t need to go through the arduous process of courting to find a mate (his words, not hers.)Yet somehow, she’s never stopped to consider that such comments might not just be Sherlock trying to push her buttons (not anymore, anyway) and instead could possibly be... flirting.In his own strange, stilted way.

She runs her hand over the tender skin of his backside, marveling at the heat she can feel where she’s hit him repeatedly.“Sherlock?”His name comes out as a question, laden with the one that she isn’t quite sure she knows how to ask.

“Sorry.”He has his head buried down between his arms, and his voice has a rough, strained quality that she’s never heard before.“I’m sorry.I tried not to-“

“Shh, it’s okay,” she soothes, stroking through his messy hair, “I’m not mad.Don’t worry about your body right now, okay?I’ve got you, and you’re taking your punishment so well for me.”

Sherlock quivers just a little in her hold, then lets go of the tension in his body on his next exhale, relaxing into her hands.

“I’ve got you...” Joan repeats, a soft smile tugging at her lips as Sherlock finally settles his full bodyweight onto her lap, giving himself over to her completely.

The next smack draws a tiny whimper from his throat, and she notes it with a careful attention to each detail.When she hits him again, it earns her a grunt of pain, though Sherlock remains incredibly, almost startlingly pliant for her.

It hurts.And he’s edging closer to his limit, but he trusts her.

He trusts her, with her hands on his body and both of their questionable life choices laid out on display for one another, and suddenly Joan has to take her hand away to wipe the blur of unexpected tears from her eyes.

Sherlock shifts, and when she can see clearly again he’s up on his elbows, neck twisted to look at her, his eyebrows drawn together with concern.

“Are you alright?”

Joan just nods, tucking her hair back behind her ear while she tries to collect herself from whatever  _ that _ was.“I’m fine,” her voice cracks a little, and when she manages to look, Sherlock has an eyebrow raised, unconvinced, “Really.I just... I don’t know.I think I got... overwhelmed, for a second there.I’m fine now, really.”

He’s silent for a tick, some amount of his usual bow-taut tension returning in the wake of her unexpected flood of emotion.“You’re certain?”

Joan can feel the soft smile his concern pulls from her, and she reaches out to stroke down his back.“I am.Now, settle back down, not too much more.”

He nods, tension easing as he lays the weight of his torso back across her thighs.

Her next slap lands at the most abused area of his skin, and he lets out a muffled whine, his face buried in his arms.

“Shh, I’ve got you,” she soothes, “We’re almost done...”

She gets off another hit to his bottom, and is just drawing her hand back for a third when she’s stopped by the quiet words tumbling from Sherlock’s mouth.

“-Sorry.I’m sorry...”

“What?”Joan’s hand lowers slowly, mental gears spinning to try and catch up.He’s actually... apologizing?Now?Here?In her lap?

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock repeats, talking into his arms, “I’m sorry, about before.I... I allowed my emotions to- to get the better of me.You and the captain were... were correct.My behavior was... was wholly unprofessional and I...” he swallows roughly, voice breaking as he forces out the word, “Apologize.”

Some more removed part of Joan’s brain wonders if she should have spanked him sooner, if this is how he reacts.Softening, she pets his hair, stroking over the crown of his skull gently.“It was very brave of you to tell me that, Sherlock.I know it feels hard sometimes, but I’m so proud of you for apologizing.”She readjusts him across her lap, silently calculating before she speaks again, “Do you think you can handle two more?”Sherlock nods, and she pats the unmarked skin of his upper thigh, her touch firm with warning.“Use your words.”

“Yes, Joan.”

Hearing her first name fall from Sherlock’s lips sends a flood of warmth from her ears all the way down to her toes, and she suddenly never wants to hear him call her anything else ever again.Shaking herself from her reverie, she rubs small circles across his shoulders.“Good.”

“Ah!”He actually cries out when the next spank lands, though she’s certainly not oblivious to the way his cock jumps at the same time, and she definitely  isn’t going to be fantasizing about all of the other ways she could make him react like that again when she’s tucked into bed later tonight.

Definitely.

“Just one more,” she promises, voice barely above a whisper.

Her last smack is short and sharp, and his grunt as he takes it is softened.

Finished, she rubs feather-light over his abused flesh, wondering over whether Sherlock has any arnica gel anywhere that she might be able to use to ease his pain and keep him from bruising.“You’re all done.”It takes her a moment to realize why he hasn’t moved, body still and heavy as he breathes, shallow and slow over her thighs.“It’s okay to get up.”

Sherlock sits up slowly, first to all-fours, and then sliding down onto his knees on the hardwood floor, pulling his pants back up.He keeps his eyes lowered, not moving until she speaks again.

“Come up here,” she instructs, sliding back so that she’s fully cradled in the oversized chair.

Sherlock obeys easily, and she’s relieved to see him laugh quietly as they fumble into a new position that won’t hurt, legs tangling and elbows bumping until he’s snuggled sideways against her chest, head laying on her shoulder.She feels his nose rub against her clavicle and wraps him in a tight hug, calmed by the constant weight of another body laying against hers.

“You did so good, Sherlock,” she whispers, pressing a series of soft kisses against his forehead.

His fingers clutch in the fabric of her blouse, and she can feel the light scrape of stubble as he murmurs into her neck, “Completely stunning...”

“Hm?”She hums.The world is beginning to fade out to a state of warm light and softness as she twists his short hair against her fingers, and she can’t be sure she’s heard him right.

“You,” Sherlock raises his head to look at her properly, his eyes half-lidded and pupils wide in the dim, golden light of the library, “You’re absolutely stunning.”He stretches up to pepper her jaw and cheek with kisses, nuzzly and tactile with the buzz of endorphins.“You, Joan Watson, are as wonderful as a domme as you are as a partner, and I would be remiss if I did not tell you so.”

“Sherlock...” his face is so close to hers in the moment that he blurs around the edges, and she can feel the soft puff of each breath against her skin as he breathes out.This entire dynamic of theirs is still so new, now that they’re out from under the constraints of a companion/client relationship.It’s the opposite of difficult, which somehow makes every second of it harder for her to accept.She doesn’t _get_ easy.Or simple, or natural.Her life has been a struggle of  _ just be normal _ ever since she was a child.She’s not normal, and she should be, and there’s so much guilt and shame and fear wrapped up in that, she can hardly bring herself to entertain the idea that someone might want her, might  _ adore _ her, as exactly what she is.

She isn’t sure what gives her the courage to do it, leaning across that last, infinitesimal amount of space between them, but when their lips touch he doesn’t pull away.Instead, she feels a hand move up to cradle the side of her face, and then Sherlock is kissing her back with just as much tenderness as she had.

It lasts mere seconds, and then they’re back to taking in one another visually, twin heartbeats rapid, each waiting for the other to make some statement of rejection.

Only, it never comes.

Instead they kiss again, soft and exploratory, testing the waters of yet another new facet to this strange relationship of theirs.

She doesn’t want to stop, doesn’t want to pull away and break the moment, but when she flexes her right hand, intent on grasping Sherlock’s shirt, it sends a throb of pain up to her wrist, and she knows that their bodies need to be cared for sooner rather than later.

Pulling back, she strokes over his cheek, wishing they could stay curled like this for just a while longer.“I need to put some ointment on those abrasions.Should we go back to your bedroom?”

Sherlock’s eyelids flutter closed at her touch, and she watches, transfixed, as his eyebrows knit in concentration.His mind always seems to be three steps ahead of everyone else’s, yet here, curled in her lap, she can see each individual cog of his brain working, his racing thoughts slowed in the syrupy warmth of the moment.“Could...” he moves, tucking his face back down against her neck, “Could we... go to your room instead?”

Joan smiles, leaning in to press her lips to his temple, “Of course.”He’s only ever slept in her room once, but the memory of spending the night like that, their bodies pressed together under the warm embrace of her comforter, hasn’t left her mind since.Having him there in the mornings, already brimming with energy as he lays out her clothes for the day, is a routine she wouldn’t trade for the most considerate roommate in the world, but having him with her at night has its own charms, and she can’t wait to explore them further.“Come on, then.”

Getting out of the chair is just as awkward as getting into it, and Sherlock ends up having to help her to her feet.

Once they’re both standing, she moves to head down to the kitchen, where she knows Sherlock keeps the first-aid kit.“I’m just going to grab a few things.I’ll meet you up there.”Only, Sherlock doesn’t move.Instead, he stands with his hands in his pockets, looking conflicted and uncomfortable.Realizing his hesitation, Joan offers him a small, reassuring smile.“Or you could come with me, if you’d prefer.”

He takes the out, moving a little too quickly to her side.

He doesn’t speak as he follows her, though she doesn’t fail to notice his flinch as he navigates the stairs, his body tender.

In the kitchen, she passes him the first-aid kit from the china cabinet, then goes to the refrigerator to retrieve a pair of cold water bottles and string cheese.She’s gotten used to seeing the array of icepacks in the freezer, but tonight is the first time she’s had much real use for them.The ones she chooses are soft and flexible, and she places them on a small stack of hand towels.

When she turns back to Sherlock he’s swaying slightly, a muted version of the way she’s used to seeing him rock on his heels, his concentration fully focused on the small scratch in the surface of the first-aid kit.

“Come on, let’s head back upstairs,” she prompts, holding out a hand to him.

When he takes it she makes sure to give his palm a reassuring squeeze before leading the way back up to the second floor.

Her bed is still mussed from her quiet fit earlier, but Sherlock doesn’t comment on it, instead merely passing her the first-aid kit when she gestures for it.

She sets the plastic case on her bedside table, hunting down the supplies she’ll need as she directs Sherlock.“Alright, pants and underwear off.Shoes too, unless you’re especially fond of sleeping with them on.”When she straightens up from the first-aid kit, a squeeze tube of arnica gel in hand, she’s pleased to see Sherlock undoing his belt, shoes already kicked off.“Can I bring you any sleep clothes from your room?”She asks, trying to ignore the little swell of sadistic delight she feels when he turns slightly, revealing the red marks she’s left on his skin.

Sherlock shakes his head, “I mostly find sleepwear to be entirely unnecessary.”

Joan shrugs, “Alright, but you are going to picking those up and putting them somewhere I won’t trip on them.”

He follows her pointed gaze down to the haphazard pile he’s left his clothes in.Realizing his mistake, he ducks his head shyly, “Of course.”

While Sherlock addresses his mess, Joan slips easily into an especially soft pair of pajamas, feeling emboldened with the evening’s events.

Once clothed, she moves to sit cross-legged on the right half of the bed.“Come lay down.”

Sherlock follows the casual command without hesitation, stretching out on his stomach and snatching one of her pillows to bolster his head.

“Good boy,” she praises, spreading the sweet-smelling gel across her palms before she begins to massage it into his reddened flesh.

Sherlock hums appreciatively as she works, only squirming occasionally when she goes over an especially sore spot.

“Sorry,” she whispers, moving on to a different spot quickly.

Once done, she wipes her hands clean on one of the towels before passing Sherlock a water bottle, cracking open the top as she does.

She twists to retrieve the ice packs and towels, and when she straightens Sherlock is propped up on his elbows, wiping a drip on water from his lips.

“Here, allow me,” he says, placing the bottle on the bedside table and sitting up on his knees.

Joan allows him to take her battered right hand, watching as he spreads out her fingers before pressing one of the ice packs to her palm.

“We could try one of the paddles next time,” Sherlock suggests as he positions the ice pack to where it can soothe her fingers as well as her palm, “It won’t be quite so hard on your hand, that way.”

“Are you planning on needing another spanking so soon?”She asks, somewhere between joking and genuinely concerned.

Sherlock raises his eyebrows at her as he ties off the towel around her hand, his expression cheeky, “Oh, I’m certain you’ll rarely run low on reasons to punish me, Watson.You might like the one with the cutouts, with a steady hand it can leave a lovely pattern in its wake.”Joan’s blush burns at her cheeks and ears, and Sherlock’s smile widens.“Don’t be shy, part of being a dominant is getting to enjoy the power you hold over your submissive, and if that includes admiring your own handiwork, I see no reason why my body can’t act as canvas to your ministrations.”

She shakes her head, eyes downcast as she considers his words.“I shouldn’t enjoy seeing you hurt.I’m sorry.”

Sherlock scoffs.“There’s no need to apologize.Being a sadist is hardly the horror that most make it out to be, and besides, there’s no doubt in my mind that you would do everything in your power to make sure that no true harm ever came to me.”

Sherlock’s words send a warm buzz through her body, and Joan finds a smile tugging at her lips.“Speaking of, back on your stomach, mister, I’m not done with you yet.”

By the time Sherlock is fully cared for, Joan can feel the exhaustion of the day dragging at her body, and it’s a relief to be able to snuggle down under the covers with Sherlock curled against her, sipping from her water bottle while she strokes his hair.

“So,” she starts, eyes on the ceiling, “Think we’ll be able to make this couple thing work?”

When she chances a glance down at Sherlock, he’s smiling softly while his fingers trace intricate patterns over her shirt.“Oh, I think we have... roughly the same chances as a surgeon does of becoming a detective.”

She nudges his shoulder gently, and is rewarded with a short huff of a laugh against her chest.“A very good chance, then.”


End file.
